The lighting is soft, casting a warm glow over the scene. I’m standing here, on the stairs, my heart pounding as I listen to her footsteps retreating. She’s going upstairs, to fuck James. Again. The blue towel is draped over the railing, a barrier between us, a symbol of my place. I’m not allowed to watch, but I can listen. And I do. Every moan, every whisper, every sound of their bodies moving together. It’s torture, but it’s my torture. She’s wet, she says, maybe ovulating. Her words echo in my mind, a mix of humiliation and desire. I’m not allowed to touch myself, she’s hidden all the lube. My cock strains against my pants, aching for release, but I know better. I’m here to listen, to obey. That’s my role. That’s what she wants. And I want to please her, even if it means enduring this sweet agony.
Her Whispers of Desire
Her voice drifts down the stairs, a mix of pleasure and command. ‘Stay below the towel,’ she says, her breath hitching. ‘Don’t make a sound.’ I can almost see her, her skirt hiked up, her legs wrapped around him. The image is clear in my mind, a vivid fantasy that torments me. I want to touch myself, to find release, but I can’t. She’s taken that away, leaving me with only my thoughts and the sounds of their passion. It’s a cruel game, but one I play willingly. Because in the end, it’s not just about the sex. It’s about the power, the control, the dynamic between us. And I’m here, listening, obeying, loving every moment of it.
